


Medical Waste

by Pulloffsky



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 09:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18938455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pulloffsky/pseuds/Pulloffsky
Summary: 'To look at the patient again proved difficult. They were still alive, and he decided an attempt at improvement could be made...'





	Medical Waste

**Author's Note:**

> cut from something else i'm writing bc i didn't feel it fit :\

Making one final incision, he declared the patient before him complete. All that was left was a little tightening of the flesh--flesh that had been rendered malleable thanks to ADAM's involvement. The end results were satisfactory at first, he felt the same sort of gloating pride he usually did when a procedure was finished, but the longer he studied the freshly sculpted face, the more he felt that feeling drain away. It was no paragon of asymmetry he'd created, no replicant of the shattered face that spoke to him in the shadows of the halls. It was a mistake. Hours and hours of work had yet again resulted in what was merely a bad brushstroke across an ugly canvas. Being a man of exceptional merit in his field, Steinman had become accustomed to achieving perfection in his every day, but now the bar had been raised to the heavens and had left him in unfamiliar territory. What he desired to create, or what he needed to create rather, was far beyond that which any mortal could devise--even with ADAM, the tool of gods.

Anger grew within him and his blood boiled. Failure was new and strange to him, something he didn't know how to cope with. In his rage he slammed a fist upon the surgical tray, sending scalpels and forceps flying. "Oh, goddess!" He cried, "Where is it I am faltering? I follow your every teaching, yet...nothing is right. NOTHING!". He clawed at his face out of frustration as he wept. Why was it that even with her guidance and his skill...success was with-kept from him? "Have I much more to learn? How long must I wait before all my work adheres to your divine standards?" He took up a scalpel in his hand. To look at the patient again proved difficult. They were still alive, and he decided an attempt at improvement could be made.

Aphrodite answered his queries before he could resume his artful mutilations.

Her voice was a whisper that struck like a blunt weapon, soft but powerful and emanating all the air of confidence one would expect of a goddess. Every word that spilled forth from her contorted mouth was instructive in nature, and analeptic. She reminded him that there were none more suited to carry out her will, and stressed that he not let his botched creations dishearten him.

He lapped up her enlightenment and grasped for her with bloodied hands, shifting into an ecstatic state. His soul soared and his fingers worked their way to her wondrously malformed self, that he might traverse the fragmented and frighteningly beautiful landscape of her body.

As always, she dissipated upon the touch. But her voice still resounded, chiming encouragement and the recipe for perfection--that thing that continued to allude him.

Drinking the milk of her wisdom brought comfort, though he knew that sensation wouldn't last.

"Thank you." He repeated quietly, grateful for the clarity delivered to him on splintered marble limbs.

The scalpel seemed to fit better in his grip. The thoughts in his head were more coherent. Anger no longer drove him, rather the inspiration from his Hellenistic muse did--as it should be.

More tender cuts he made along the patients face, carefully and steadily, neglecting to clean the copious amounts of blood that poured from the opened flesh. He studied them closely with his keen but tired eyes before sculpting further. Pulling at the skin again he found that it reached new and delightful places, stretching across the face to create a more idyllic image. Bone was broken and aligned in a fantastical manner, fused with ADAM--the gift that always gave.

The patient had become a beguiling visage, twisted in the prettiest of ways. They stirred, awakening, and the sudden assault of agony for them was unbearable. They screamed and thrashed violently, flailing beneath loosening restraints, fresh stitches coming free.

"No - No! What are you doing?!" Steinman's voice conveyed genuine horror. The incisions had split and the patients jaw had become dislocated in a manner that didn't please. "You're ruining everything!"

The patient only screamed more in response, barely able to see, their eyelids drooped and swollen.

"Stop your writhing!" That controlling rage Steinman was usually subjected to rose within him again, and continued to do so as the patient refused to quiet down and lie still. He never understood why his actions were never met with the showers of adoration he deserved--He was doing what was best for them, wasn't he? Deftly, he took up a threaded needle to suture the incisions again. He struggled to pass it through the skin, the patient still floundering upon the table. "Aphrodite, why do they reject our blessing?!" He cried, "I slave away, doing only good for them, and they scorn me...or die! What wicked thing is it that makes them spurn that which they should be indebted to me for?!" His aggression was now reflected in the tone of his voice, each line punctuated with a strike across the table. "Dear goddess, please..." He wished she'd manifest before him again.

Indistinct cries for help spouted from between the patients horrendously misshapen lips, amplifying Steinman's fury. His frustration grew to such an extent that he pulled at his hair and swayed in a spell of dizziness, thoughts scrambled. He beckoned for Aphrodite, every breath a prayer for her--her wisdom and presence.

The patient continued to flail their sore, broken body and Steinman was unable to tolerate it any longer. "STOP IT, YOU INGRATE!" He screamed, voice cracking. His hand found his scalpel again. First he slashed at the air, then at flesh as he cried and cried. Blood sprayed his surgical coat and the theatre filled with wails of agony. The patient choked on fear and the light faded from their eyes, body still.


End file.
